Race for the Flash Stone (The Anlon Cully Chronicles Book 2)

by K Patrick Donoghue

  “Anything unofficial?”

  Another pause. This time he whispered, “Promise to keep it on the down low?”

  Though he couldn’t see her gesture over the phone, Jennifer raised a hand and solemnly replied, “Scout’s honor.”

  “I got a bit more out of Billy than he shared with the Apuí PD and Interpol,” Nickerson said.

  Jennifer smiled. Dan was the kind of cop who didn’t walk away from open-ended clues. “Did you now? Like what?”

  “Billy said Margaret came into the fishing lodge a few days beforehand. She was interested in renting an inflatable raft. Billy quoted her a price and she put down a deposit, but she never came back.”

  As Dixie arrived with a fresh beer, Jennifer said, “Please tell me she used a credit card for the deposit.”

  “She did. Victoria Bradley’s the name on Billy’s copy of the card receipt.”

  “Sweet. Why didn’t the fish lodge guy tell the locals or Interpol about it?”

  “He said they didn’t ask about the deposit.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Yeah, I don’t buy it. I think Billy’s lying. I think he just didn’t want to get involved. I passed the info on, so everybody’s got it now.”

  “Did you ping the credit card company?”

  “Uh-huh. Guess what.”

  “She’s used the card since she left the hospital, hasn’t she?” Jennifer pounded the table, nearly spilling the replacement pint.

  “No, we didn’t get that lucky,” Nickerson said, sighing, “but we do know now where she spent the last two months. She ran up one helluva hotel bill at a resort on Barbados. There were also airline charges. Seems ‘Vickie’ went back and forth between Barbados and a nearby island called Dominica a dozen times.”

  Apuí, Brazil

  It was approaching midnight when Christian Hunte cracked open the bedroom door to check on Margaret. After several fitful hours, the fever had broken and she’d finally fallen asleep. He had done all he could for her; now it was up to Foucault.

  Christian stepped out onto the hotel balcony and immediately broke into a sweat. The oppressive air held down the Earth’s heat like the lid of a pot, even at this time of night. Wiping his brow, he dipped into his pocket and plucked out his cell phone. He pressed the preset for Foucault’s number and waited for the international call to connect.

  A moment later, Foucault answered. “Allô? Christian?”

  “Good morning, Monsieur. Hopefully, I did not wake you.”

  “Non. I am awake,” Foucault said. “Did you find the site? Do you have the Tuliskaera?”

  “Navarro’s party got there before me,” Christian said. “He blasted it open and came out empty-handed.”

  A heavy sigh sounded on the other end of the line. “Well, at least Navarro did not take it. There was nothing else?”

  “Navarro came out with nothing. He was quite angry. I don’t blame him. It definitely was a Maerlif, but it was almost completely buried and well back from the river. They did go back inside and cut out the beacon. The diamond was much larger than I expected. It barely fit in Navarro’s hand.”

  “Was Margaret with him?”

  Through the phone, Christian heard the familiar sound of the chateau’s creaky patio door opening and the chirping of birds. “No, Navarro was alone when he joined the rest of the party.”

  “How is our patient?”

  “Stable, for the moment. I can probably keep her alive for another day, maybe two if I use all the enjyia.” Christian wiped more sweat from his dripping brow.

  “Bon. I will leave from Béziers tonight. I will bring more enjyia with me. Tell me of her injuries.”

  Pacing the balcony, Christian chronicled the damage. “It is a miracle she’s still alive. She has a gash through the abdomen. Entry wound midway down her back on the right side. Exit wound just beneath her right front rib cage. It must have been a very long blade.

  “She has an uneven slash across her neck, just above the line of her shoulders. I cannot tell the internal damage, although she’s having difficulty breathing. I’d say a punctured lung at a minimum. Her abdomen and back are sutured. The hospital must have provided her with some blood and fluids. There are some other defensive cuts to her hands, but they’re minor by comparison. She’s been feverish and pale.”

  After a brief pause, Foucault said, “The prognosis does not sound promising, Christian. Has she spoken?”

  “A little. She can only gasp two to three words at a time, but she’s been able to answer other questions with her fingers. One for yes, two for no. As I mentioned, she did not make it to the Maerlif; the attack happened before. I know Navarro did it, and they were alone.”

  “Coward! Attacking her from behind,” sneered Foucault. “What else have you learned?”

  “She said the Cinta-Larga found her. It must have been shortly after the attack; otherwise she would be dead. I didn’t fully understand what she was trying to tell me, but it sounded as if they brought her to the hospital. The Cinta-Larga did a bit of triage on their own. I found traces of terra preta and beeswax on the neck wound. They have a long memory.”

  “So it seems. What of Navarro? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. As soon as he came out with the diamond, they left in a hurry. I think they were afraid the Cinta-Larga heard the explosion. Navarro kept looking over his shoulder.”

  “Hmmm. Do you think Navarro suspects Margaret survived?”

  “I couldn’t say, Monsieur.”

  There was another pause as Foucault pondered the new information. At last, he said, “He is shrewder than I thought. I didn’t expect he would decode the map so quickly. Now Navarro is a step ahead of us, Christian. He will make for the next closest Maerlif.”

  “Where?”

  “If only I knew,” Foucault said.

  “Monsieur, there is one other thing I should mention.”

  “Yes?”

  Unable to bear the heat any longer, Christian left the balcony. “I think it’s possible the Cinta-Larga have a Tuliskaera. Or, did at one time. I passed several channels carved into hillsides that looked unnatural.”

  “You think they looted the Maerlif?”

  Inside the room, Christian hovered his face above the vents of the window air conditioner. “There have always been questions about their never-ending supply of diamonds, Monsieur. And, if rumors are true, they guard their largest deposit with unusually heavy security.”

  “We will pay them a visit, I think. But, not now. Even Muran would find it a challenge to take on the Cinta-Larga.”

  “Very well. Unless there is something else, I will go and tend to Margaret.”

  “One moment, Christian. I have news to share as well. When I arrived home this afternoon, there was a most interesting voice message from a woman working for Anlon Cully.”

  Logan International Airport

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The boarding area was packed. Jennifer curled her feet under the bench seat so a family of five could pass through. A couple of them sniffed the air around her and frowned with disapproval. Jennifer resisted the temptation to jump and say, “It’s not me, it’s the damn notepad!”

  She loathed the idea of parting with the digest-sized booklet, but it did reek. Pulling the warped book from her bag, she flipped through the pages and frowned. Most of her notes had been obliterated and the remaining blank pages were soiled. She briefly considered holding onto it, but the thought of the stale beer odor percolating in her bag for six hours was enough to push Jennifer over the edge. Once the family passed, she tossed the book in a nearby trash bin.

  Resettling on the bench, she checked the gate monitor. A half hour to go until boarding. She closed her eyes and wondered if she should call Anlon tonight or wait until she arrived in Villahermosa. She had just resolved to call him, when her phone buzzed.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Miss Jennifer Stevens?”

  When Jennifer heard the British acc
ent, she looked at her phone screen. It read “Unknown Caller.”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Stevens. Am I calling at an inconvenient time?”

  Overhead, a loudspeaker announced the commencement of boarding for the gate next to Jennifer’s. She wedged a finger in her ear while she depressed the phone tightly against the other. “No, it’s fine. Who is this, please?”

  “Excuse me, how rude of me. My name is Christian Hunte. I am the private secretary for Count Foucault. I understand you left a message for him.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Thank you for returning my call,” Jennifer said. “I’m sorry for the background noise. I’m getting ready to board a flight.”

  “Oh?” said Christian. “Where are you headed?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business.”

  “Should we schedule another time to talk?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. Now is good.”

  “How may I be of assistance?”

  “Um, well, I work for Dr. Anlon Cully. He’s the nephew of the late Devlin Wilson, the archaeologist,” said Jennifer.

  “Yes?”

  Jennifer repeated the explanation she had left on Foucault’s voicemail: “We’ve had a difficult time tracking down some of the purchase records for some pieces in Dr. Wilson’s art collection. We need them to appraise the artifacts for probate. Dr. Cully is Dr. Wilson’s executor. Anyway, I found correspondence between Dr. Wilson and Count Foucault discussing one of the items and I wondered if I might speak with him about it.”

  “I see. Can you describe the item? I can ask my employer and phone you back with an answer.”

  Jennifer contemplated how to describe the Naetir. She wondered if “Count” Foucault would know what a hockey puck looked like. “Um, it’s a cylinder. About two inches tall, about five inches in diameter. Gray in color. It’s a stone.”

  “Hmmm…it doesn’t sound familiar. When did this correspondence occur? I handle nearly all of the count’s letters, and I don’t remember a note from Dr. Wilson.”

  “About nine months ago, between Thanksgiving and New Year’s if I remember correctly,” said Jennifer, ruing the loss of her notebook. “It was an email exchange. I think Devlin, excuse me, Dr. Wilson wrote to him directly.”

  “Very well. I will be happy to check our records. Will you be gone for long?”

  “Thank you, I appreciate it. Um, no. I should be back in the States within a day or two. You can reach me on this number,” Jennifer said.

  “I will call you as soon as I can,” Christian replied.

  Incline Village, Nevada

  The kitchen door shut with a thud. Pebbles froze in mid-tiptoe and cringed. “Sorry!” With uncorked Cabernet bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, she continued down the slate steps. “Light the fire, A.C.”

  “Okay, hold onto your britches!”

  While Anlon fumbled along the fire pit’s base in search of the starter switch, Pebbles began to hop in place. “Hurry! My feet are cold.”

  He swung around and reprimanded, “Well, put on shoes next time!” Finally, Anlon’s hand found the switch and ignited the fire. “There? That better?”

  Clad in a white tank top and black-and-blue polka-dot pajama pants, Pebbles nodded and scurried toward Anlon and the warmth of the fire pit. As she neared the blaze, her pink hair took on a rosy glow. Anlon smiled and relieved her of the bottle and glasses. Placing them on the table between their chairs, he wrapped his arms around her waist.

  Pebbles cooed and snuggled against his shoulder. Anlon raised a hand to stroke her soft hair and guided her face to his. He stared into her eyes and kissed her deeply. Pebbles snaked her hands around his neck and closed her eyes as their tongues danced. Pulling away slightly, Pebbles whispered, “Hold on a sec.”

  Creeping forward, she maneuvered her icy toes atop Anlon’s bare feet and sighed, “Ah…much better.”

  Anlon shivered and grimaced before breaking into a thin smile. Pebbles smiled in return and they resumed kissing. The intermittent crackle of flames and the occasional chirp of lonely insects were the only sounds around them. Above, the moonless sky was filled with thousands of stars. Among the glittering white dots, a solitary orange star flickered brightly.

  Just as Anlon leaned to nibble Pebbles’ neck, his cell phone blared a heavy metal ringtone. He paused, his lips hovering just beneath her ear. Pebbles turned away and clamped her hand against her mouth to muffle a laugh. “Oh my God! You have an Ice Zombies’ ringtone?”

  With a sigh, Anlon plopped onto a cushioned deck chair and reached for the phone. “Yeah, just added it.”

  “What? Are you a groupie for our new neighbor?”

  “It’s Jen’s ringtone,” Anlon said, smiling.

  “Ahh…”

  Anlon answered the phone.

  “So much for romance!” Pebbles said, frowning. She curled onto the chair next to him and poured a glass of wine.

  “Hey, Anlon,” Jennifer whispered. “Can’t talk long. Plane’s about to go.”

  “No problem. What’s up?” he asked.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Margaret Corchran surfaced. In Brazil, somewhere in the Amazon.”

  “What? Where exactly?”

  Anlon heard muffled noises over the phone, followed by the sound of Jennifer negotiating with the flight attendant. When she returned to the call, Jennifer whispered, “Gotta go. A place called Apuí. Oh, and she’d been to Dominica, too. I’ll explain later.”

  “Okay, thanks for the call. Safe flight,” said Anlon. He disconnected the call and turned to Pebbles. “Be back in a sec.”

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  Anlon slowly mounted the back steps. “Margaret Corchran is in Brazil.”

  “What?” Pebbles stood and followed on his heels.

  When they reached the kitchen door, Anlon held it open for Pebbles while saying, “According to Jen, Margaret showed up in Brazil, and she’s been to Dominica.”

  Once inside, they headed for his office and gathered around the map. Anlon found the black pin in the lower left corner of Brazil. Turning to face Pebbles, he kissed her on the cheek and said, “Do me a favor. Hop on my laptop and search for a town called Apuí in Brazil.”

  “Sure.” After a dozen keystrokes, she said, “It’s a mining town.”

  “Where’s it located?”

  Pebbles clicked on an Apuí map link and up popped a map of Brazil with Apuí marked by a red dot. “Take a look.”

  Anlon moved behind her to look at the screen, then returned to the wall map. “Well, I guess I can take out the green pins now.”

  CHAPTER 16

  HEALING HANDS

  Apuí, Brazil

  August 17

  Margaret moaned as she curled forward. Behind her, Christian positioned a pillow against the wall and said, “Lean back slowly. Not so fast. Slowly. Slowly.”

  Relaxing her weight against the pillow, Margaret sighed and ran a hand across the bandage covering her neck. Through bleary eyes, she scanned the room. For most of the past forty-eight hours, her view had been confined to the squeaky ceiling fan wobbling above the bed.

  Next to the bed sat a small bureau that doubled as a nightstand. Painted turquoise, the table surface held a battered alarm clock, a phone and a lamp shaped like a toucan. In the far corner of the room sat a lumpy armchair. Once a bright shade of banana yellow, the chair now was mottled with greasy stains.

  Upon this chair, Jacques Foucault perched uncomfortably in a tan suit and observed Margaret as she gained her bearings. At the foot of the bed was the only other piece of furniture in the room, a caned-back chair that loudly creaked each time Christian shifted his posture.

  “Are you thirsty?” Foucault asked.

  She nodded and Christian fetched a bottled water from the adjoining room. Margaret cautiously sipped the water and grimaced as she swa
llowed. Resting the bottle by her side, she closed her eyes and willed the throbbing in her throat to fade.

  “I know it hurts,” Foucault said. “In a little while, we will give you something to ease the pain.”

  Margaret opened her mouth to speak and a sharp sting radiated on her right side. Foucault said, “Do not try to speak. Not yet. Just listen and use your fingers to answer as you did with Christian. Comprende?”

  She instinctively nodded and was rewarded with a burning twinge in her throat. She groaned and raised an index finger to signal “yes.”

  Rising from the armchair, Foucault paced across the room’s wooden floor and eased down on the bed’s edge. The flimsy frame squeaked and shivered under the added weight. He placed a hand atop her sheet-covered thigh. “You are very fortunate to be alive.”

  Margaret lifted a solitary finger again. Her memories of all that transpired after Navarro’s attack were spotty, but she remembered enough to concur with Foucault’s assessment.

  Once Navarro set their campsite ablaze, she had watched him prance away without a care in the world while she floundered on the ground. She remembered being roused by two dark figures hovering in the glow of the fire. Their faces were stern and their words unintelligible. Convinced it was the Cinta-Larga come to finish her off, Margaret had closed her eyes and waited for the end.

  Later, she stirred briefly and found she was on a wide canoe with several natives. One chanted above her while the others oared with the swift current. The chanting native smiled down at her and nodded reassuringly. When she awoke again, she was in a hospital ward. Unable to speak and heavily sedated, Margaret vaguely recalled a parade of doctors and nurses with concerned looks.

  And then a policeman had arrived at her bedside and questioned her in broken English. When he took her fingerprints, Margaret realized she was in jeopardy. When he displayed the Breylofte and posed further questions, she recalled flashes of the trek through the jungle and Navarro’s surprise attack. Mind spinning, she had felt an overwhelming need to flee.